


In a Waistcoat Pocket

by mellish



Category: Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: Bad Advice, Denial, F/M, Love/Hate, M/M, Marriage of Convenience, Opium, Trauma, Weddings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-02
Updated: 2011-04-02
Packaged: 2017-10-28 14:15:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,294
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/308722
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mellish/pseuds/mellish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ciel is getting married.  Things are rather unusual.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In a Waistcoat Pocket

**Author's Note:**

> Written for: yinake; Characters: older!Ciel, Sebastian; Prompt: Something happens, Ciel is depressed for one reason or another (maybe he can't sort out his feelings for Sebastian? Or it's because of Lizzie? Or he's going through teenage angst?), and Sebastian finds him smoking opium like a rebellious teenager smoking pot in his car; Any specifics: pairing okay, just gen interaction is good too. :-)

The visit is unannounced, and therefore amusing. Ciel already knows what kind of smile Lau will greet him with, as he strides through the den, heralded by the now-familiar tap of his cane against the tiled flooring. The place still smells awful to him, dimly lit and strangely warm. He ignores the girl that leans against his couch, trailing her arms over his shoulders, and the other one that brings him tea, wearing what was less a skirt and more a napkin. Ranmao paws at Lau's cheek when he settles in the seat across Ciel, legs crossed; he tuts and asks her to cut it out, because Big Brother has work to do. Ciel rolls his eyes, distaste clearly marked across his face, even as Lau blows a puff of smoke into it.

"To what do I owe this visit, young lord," Lau murmurs. Ciel winces, but starts his repertoire. He shows Lau two packets of gunpowder, followed by the usual bland request for information – for the Queen, because he has other matters to attend to at the moment, and this was all he could gather from the last location. Lau says something polite about nobility. Ranmao licks his left earlobe as he accepts the packets and tells Ciel that he'll get to it soon as can be, but in the meantime, perhaps he'd like some dancing girls?

"No thank you," Ciel answers curtly. He sips his tea, watching Lau through one half-lidded eye; attractive young Earl that he is, two more girls have clustered over the couch in poses that strategically show off their bosoms. He doesn't even realize that he never stirred their attention before. He ignores them, finishes his cup, and stands to leave.

"And where is the good sir butler?" Lau can't help asking – can't even help the undercurrent of laughter.

"Working," Ciel says, conveying purely through tone the insult, however unintended. He is _Ciel Phantomhive_. He no longer needs a chaperone. Lau grins genially, then follows to see him off. At the door he slips something into Ciel's pocket, adding, with an air of roguish mystery, "I do not doubt the young lord has a beautiful collection of pipes."

Ciel cocks an eyebrow, but doesn't reply.

\---

A catalogue of things that have lately been occupying his thoughts:

1\. He is getting married in two weeks.  
2\. Lizzie has claimed to be working on the ceremony, except the wine and the chocolates, which only means that Sebastian has his hands full with _everything_ – except the church. (He put his foot down on that one, and Ciel laughed, while Lizzie looked from one to the other with polite puzzlement. Ciel realized that was how it was going to be for most things.)  
3\. It is easier to do paperwork. Easier to do any kind of work.  
4\. He wakes up every morning with a throbbing headache. This has been happening for eighteen days already. The headaches do not go away no matter what he does, no matter how much tea he takes ("Perhaps the caffeine is aggravating it?" "Shut up, nobody asked _you_ ,"), no matter how many more hours of sleep he forces.  
5\. Yesterday he locked himself in his study. No, actually – he locked Sebastian out of his study, with a fear that he couldn't explain, and stood against the door clutching the key at an angle where if he tried he could drive it into his forehead. He stayed that way, breathing hard, listening to Sebastian knock softly against the door. Two, three knocks. Then his footsteps fading, even as Ciel imagined his smile, the curve of his lips, the gleam of gloating in his eyes.

\---

Lau guessed right, of course. The pipes are in the left-most drawer of the library: different finishes and sizes, next to an old case of rolled tobacco and some discarded poker chips. He wouldn't call them vices, but _indulgences_ doesn't suit his father, either; Ciel knows indulgent people, and it's not something he'd like to associate with the late Lord Phantomhive. But in the empty space of an afternoon, with nothing to distract him, he can't refrain from feeling around his pocket for Lau's little present, and shaking it in front of the sunlight, wondering at its contents. For some reason it reminds him of Lizzie and all her innocent hobbies, girlish charm evolving into pious womanhood. After all these years, she has become more quiet and more graceful, even regal – but not in the harsh, austere manner of her mother.

He loves her the same way he always did: a simple, careful affection for the cousin he had grown up with. Without her knowing it, Ciel had somehow turned her into an anchor, elevated her into the one thing in his life that proved his madness didn't have to ruin everything. Still. – although it is not a fact he admits, he knows he can never love her properly; not the way he _would_ , if he was anyone else. Anyone but himself. If the incident two years ago during his state visit to the Queen was any indication, Ciel had already lost any chance he had of being remotely suitable for his bride-to-be. What little normalcy he'd tried to cling to, growing up, had swirled miserably down the gutter – and he couldn't even hide it. He carried around his guilt like lead, like undigested food.

The Marchioness suspected it – seemed like she did, anyway – but didn't say anything about it except, "Well, you seem to be looking more the man these days, my dear nephew. A growth spurt?" in a manner that made him feel like vomiting. Never mind the fact that he was too _old_ for growth spurts.

Sebastian, the jackass, supplied with great humor, "Indeed, he has outgrown his jacket!"

" _Bastard_ ," Ciel hissed. When the Marchioness turned to him with a wrinkled brow, he simply pasted on a smile and said, "Custard! It's delicious."

That wasn't it. He couldn't even explain what _it_ was, how _it_ had happened. It went way beyond just –whispering, mouths, hands, darkness, and that wasn't the last of what _had_ happened, what _has_ been happening. At some point he realized desire and curiosity weren't part of it anymore, just need and agonizing, blinding shame. That, and Sebastian's overwhelming conceit, his unreadable movements, his empty smile. Ciel has grown tired of it.

Which is why this is a good thing. After so many years, this wedding is finally happening, timely in its own way, though the fact that the Queen had been rather sick lately and her attendance is absolutely necessary might have something to do with it. That didn't explain, of course, why Ciel managed to tunnel through two entire stacks of paperwork yesterday, after avoiding said papers for all of two months. In the afternoon he called for Maylene to make him tea in his study, and watched her impassively as she did. After all these years Maylene had finally learned to make adequate tea, though of course she was jittery under his observation, and spilled some on the carpet when she poured him a cup. He said nothing, and waved her away, promptly forgetting all about it. When he finally remembered, and lifted the cup to drink, the tea had become impenetrably black.

He has not seen Lizzie in two weeks, which is a relief as much as it is alarming. Lizzie's laughter is a liability, something he wants to preserve as much as he can – though he knows better than that. Once she's a Phantomhive as well, there's little he can do to protect her. Even an increase in security would do little. During her last visit he had barely seen her, except for that half-hour teatime where they demurely ate scones in the sitting room. She had only been there to meet up with Ms. Hopkins, who had merrily designed an alarming number of potential dresses ("White is so virginal, so _sexy_!"). Ciel had been kicked out of the room, thankfully, not so much because his eye for fashion had "much deteriorated over the years" (Nina's words – then again she could never admit that only Sebastian's eye had ever been involved in Ciel's wardrobe), but because they wanted it to be a surprise.

It isn't fear. It's anxiety. It's Elizabeth's smile and Sebastian's weird pacing, his eyes going oddly chill, his breathing too familiar, and the household suddenly too big for the three of them to be in it together. But how can it matter now? It's only another few paces to hell, so why not.

\---

He knows it's a stupid thing to think.

Because he remembers. _Why not_ , he thought, as he grasped at the frayed threads of life that gleamed in the dark, where he was alone and suffering. _Why not_ , something in his brain echoed, when he asked for thirty children to be burnt to crisps. _Why not_ , as he shot someone in the mouth, and Sebastian grumped at his stolen glory and wiped the blood off his master's brow. _Why not_ , after dinner, after too much alcohol at dinner, which was wholly inappropriate in the presence of royalty but everyone knew _the young lord Phantomhive has been going to the bad_ for several years now so what the hell, he was going to have as much gin and cider as he damn pleased. _Why not_ and suddenly Sebastian was leaning over him and everything was black and cold and he felt like he was thirteen again and did so, terribly, not want to know what was happening.

 _Why not_ , he thinks, even now. He saw Lau do this countless times, with his custom pipe – arm stretched out lazily, the lantern glow a dull, muted yellow on his features, while the substance at the end of the pipe vaporized. Ranmao would finger each new little pod, thoughtfully, before placing it in the mouth of the pipe. "This is made of jade, you know," Lau drawled. "That one's made of porcelain, and that one's – bone." He smirks. "Sorry, horn." ("Fascinating," was his dry reply.) Even now Ciel wonders if this isn't why Lau never seems to have a cohesive thought process.

He knows there are other things he can do to keep up appearances, when he must. He knows he won't like it. That there's work to do. But knowing doesn't always make a difference. He thinks about waking up, bruised across the side, both arms, head throbbing. It's still dark. Sebastian has his back turned, and Ciel studies his shoulders for several minutes before he realizes what he's doing. Sebastian turns, catches him looking, gets this strange expression on his face. _I don't want this_ , Ciel thinks, horrified. Maybe he says it. Maybe he says, "Shit, I'm so drunk," and Sebastian answers, "You need to come up with another excuse." Then his hand, moving through the hair on Ciel's forehead, across his scalp, gathering at the base of his skull to snap his head back, and all Ciel can do is shut his eyes. Know this is terrible. Know that knowing doesn't change a thing.

\---

He doesn't feel any different. At least, he doesn't _think_ so, ten minutes later. Not even when he stands and takes a few steps past the rosebushes, inclining his head as he inspects the trellis that Sebastian has taught Finny to tend over the nearest wall ("You have to _deadhead_ the wilted ones, or the rest won't grow –" "B-but Mister Sebastian, it just doesn't seem fair!"). The flowers make his lips twitch into what he assumes is a smile; the sight of them is oddly relaxing, all rosy-pink-deep-red. Like wine. Or the insides of steaks. Or cupcake frosting. Like what he'll have for dinner, what he'll always have for dinner, and what difference will it make when Lizzie takes the seat next to his? What does it matter that he doesn't really know what's going to happen anymore, and if he has a child and dies soon afterwards, if Lizzie becomes a widow, if Sebastian turns into a problem he can no longer handle – who cares? Certainly not Ciel Phantomhive. He grows beautiful roses in his garden after all.

Ciel forces a laugh through his mouth, which is suddenly so dry he can taste the biscuits he sneaked before teatime; the sound registers in his ears as _very nearly desperate_ but _why_ , he thinks. And what does it matter? He breathes out and pretends he can see the smoke that escapes, and walks past the roses, onto the stone walkway, but not before stepping on the grass deliberately, relishing how the green crunches beneath his shoes. He feels his shoulders sink; it occurs to him that his head is no longer hurting, now how about that? It seems strange how something as trivial as a headache could have troubled him. Trouble, hah.

"Now that's a funny word," he mutters to himself, watching his feet as they pull him along. Irretrievably – down – along – what, where, he doesn't give a fuck. Everything is easy. Fuck is an angry word. Something he dreamed he scratched onto the floor in a cell where the bars shone like moonlight and someone was tearing at his hair, smelling it, raking dirty fingers through it. Something he muttered whenever he woke up from a nightmare that ended with his hand clutching a pistol he kept under his pillow. Something he yelled at Sebastian when he wasn't being fair, showing him how to properly break someone's defense and then knee him in the ribcage, because of the damn height difference.

"Hey, that's a funny word too," he says, and laughs again – "It feels no different!" Because he can't be bothered to say it, he simply mouths, _nothing here is different_. Not even Lizzie-as-he-imagines-her, but he could be wrong, right? Maybe she isn't as virtuous as he thinks. Women can be sly, too. Even Lizzie must have _some_ vice that does not involve an excess of dollhouses. The idea comforts him.

His pacing slows; he notices, and makes a game with himself to move faster. He's at the end of the garden now. Soon he'll be past the second veranda, where he kissed Lizzie three years ago, and thought _she tastes like the earth, the cold and beautiful earth_. She tastes like the smoke did, in his mouth. Next time she will inevitably taste like something else! What a lovely idea. Ciel likes it so much that he laughs, then settles down on the grass, crouched on his bum with his hands over his knees. A moment that seems long passes. Then he turns his head and vomits onto a bush of newly bloomed flowers.

\---

Nothing hurts, nothing hurts, nothing nothing nothing nothing nothing ever hurts. Nothing hurts. He's six and sitting on his father's lap and his mother is splitting a chocolate bar with him. He's eighteen and piss drunk and wrapped in someone else's black jacket but it's so familiar it might as well be his own skin. He can't stop talking and thinking like a brat, he is never going to grow up, he is never going to find a solution. He will always have a problem, be a problem. The problems always _exist_.

But they don't hurt, nothing does, nothing ever did, nothing _will_ and he won't feel, will just not feel anymore.

It isn't true that nobody is looking. _Somebody_ always is.

\---

"Honestly, after all these years one would think it _painfully_ apparent that you don't take well to opium. You've never liked the smell, after all. It's supposed to be a cure for asthma, but it appears to have the effect of nausea on you instead."

He blinks. Light and dark spots swim before his eyes. Sebastian is talking to him, or himself again, he can never tell these days. He tries to sit up. He's on the swing in the second veranda, knees propped up over the edge, head on Lizzie's needlework duck pillow. The motion means all he does is go halfway upright, and the way his stomach tightens makes him want to throw up again.

"Please, don't," Sebastian says, elegantly exasperated. "Your sick is not the most effective weed killer, my lord."

He shuts his eyes and concentrates on not opening his mouth. He can feel the afternoon chill, which must mean that Sebastian has taken the liberty of doing away with his vomit-stained clothing. As usual. When he opens his eyes again the world is thankfully shaded and it's like he can taste everything he has eaten for the last three days. At least the headache hasn't returned. Sebastian's head is tipped ponderously to one side, disapproving, but Ciel won't let himself be like this. Not this time.

"Sebastian," he starts. The words are rough, gravel moving from his throat to his tongue, "We're not going to...we won't," he still can't say it. "Not anymore."

The pause after his words is suspiciously brief. "Yes, my lord." A thin smile, and one hand to his chest.

It's too easy. "No more. Is that understood?"

"Certainly," Sebastian replies, and now there's frost to it, because when has Ciel ever needed to clarify? That's not how their communication works. He forgets if there's anything else left to say. Forgets if there's anything else he ever wanted more than this – to end things, completely, utterly. Three heartbeats and Sebastian clears his throat, before adding: "Your mouth is very dry, master." Sebastian slides one hand beneath Ciel's back and pulls him up; his legs slip over the edge of the swing. The demon eases him into a sitting position. Nausea crawls up his throat. He keeps silent, and continues to stare at the floor, until Sebastian presents him with a glass of water.

\---

Ciel gets through the ceremony, somehow, in a way he is certain the Marchioness would approve of. At least ten guests grew teary-eyed, mostly Elizabeth's friends. Sebastian stayed discreetly outside the church, probably whistling to himself as he affixed more ribbons onto their carriage, until the church bells tolled and the newlyweds boarded the gaudy thing under a spray of petals and went on to the Manor where dinner was held. The food was splendid. The orchestra was good and despite Lau's outlandish tango with Ranmao, and someone knocking over the third display of shortcakes, the night ended to everyone's satisfaction.

At some point Lizzie slipped her hand into his and whispered that he needed to ease up, because his shoulders looked stiff as board. He breathed out, and squeezed her hand back. She trembled at the gesture, so lightly that he could have missed it. He wondered, briefly, what any of this really meant to Elizabeth. Decided, from the way she blinked rapidly and looked away, that it wasn't his concern.

She prays in their bed that night, fingers clasped to her breast. With her hair undone around her face like that, she looks painfully angelic. He waits for her to finish, pretending that he is doing the same, when really he is only counting heartbeats.

Afterward, Elizabeth asks, "May I?" But he pulls the eyepatch off himself, drops it on the night stand, and keeps that one eye shut. She doesn't ask questions, because she's learned not to. Ciel finds it strange and unfamiliar, her skin, the flush of her cheeks; how gentle he must remember to be, when he runs his fingers over the soft plane of her stomach, her wholly delicate gasp of _oh_. Oh, he thinks, and he's not thinking anything else as he cups one hand beneath her chin and kisses her gently on the lips. Tomorrow there will be new letters of gratitude to write, new cups of tea to drink, a hundred new secrets to swallow.


End file.
